


like the blind leading the blind

by AppleJuiz



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angst, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always thought it was Laurel, so it makes sense that everyone else did as well.  He’d known her for as long as he could remember.  She meant more to him than anyone else for the longest time.  In times of despair, he would go to her.  When he needed advice he would go to her.  He felt complete around her, like a better person.</p>
<p>He doesn’t realize that until later. Until after 5 years of hell, of carrying a picture of her and deciding to be better for her.  Until he gets home and everything changes. Until he takes a bullet ridden laptop to a small broom closet of an office on a floor he’s never been to before.</p>
<p>Because for all that people talk about angels, no one ever told Oliver that they have real wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the blind leading the blind

He always thought it was Laurel, so it makes sense that everyone else did as well.  He’d known her for as long as he could remember.  She meant more to him than anyone else for the longest time.  In times of despair, he would go to her.  When he needed advice he would go to her.  He felt complete around her, like a better person.

She always told him he was better than what everyone else said, always thought he was more than who he actually was.  He thought it was because she was his, and it isn’t until years later, that he realizes she simply didn’t see him for who he was.

For as long as Oliver could remember, he heard people talking about angels.  Everyone either has one, their own guardian, or is one.  They can be a friend, a love, a partner.  Sometimes all if you’re particularly lucky, you get all three in one.  Sometimes they don’t show up right away, but they’ll be there when you need them most.  There’s lots of unknowns about angels.  Whether they know who they’re helping or not, whether they even know that they are angels.  Some people doubt if they exist at all. It was the kind of fantasy you talked about with a friend at three in the morning.  So it was no surprise that he would frequently voice his suspicions to Tommy.

“Do you think one of us could be an angel?” he would ask.  Or, “Do you think Laurel is my angel?” “Do you think Laurel would know if she was my angel?” “Do you think you would know if you were someone’s angel?”

He never told Laurel.  Because what if she was and wasn’t allowed to tell him? What if she got offended?  What if she didn’t know she was an angel at all and panicked?

So he kept these thoughts to himself, and occasionally Tommy and sometimes his parents who would smile and coo about how cute he was being.

He should have known actually.  Because if Laurel was his angel, wouldn’t she stop him from doing bad things? Wouldn’t she keep him good? Give him advice? Tell him to stop doing dumb things?

Laurel didn’t make him good.  Laurel made him feel scared sometimes.  What was an exciting idea as a kid, that Laurel was it, Laurel was his angel, end of story, full stop, and happy ever after, became daunting, intimidating, and too much of a commitment for him to consider.  So he did bad things.  He pushed Laurel away, but always pulled her back in.  He went behind her back, and fed her lies and cheated on her with her own goddamn sister.  And in his head, it made some sort of sense that since he was moving away from her, he was moving towards the bad, because she was his angel, and by not being with her, he wasn’t being good.  

But she didn’t stop him.

He doesn’t realize that until later. Until after 5 years of hell, of carrying a picture of her and deciding to be better for her.  Until he gets home and everything changes. Until he takes a bullet ridden laptop to a small broom closet of an office on a floor he’s never been to before.

Because for all that people talk about angels, no one ever told Oliver that they have real wings.

~

Felicity Smoak is blonde. Amazingly that’s the first thing he notices.  She’s blonde but her roots are dark.  Her glasses are perched gracefully on the bridge of her nose.  Her pen is red, her face is lit up blue from the screen in front of her, and she has wings.

They rest against the arms of her chair, translucent and yellow.  They’re not a pale yellow or a cream color.  They’re bright yellow with spots of blue.  They look soft and light, but intangible.  He’s never seen anything like them before.

She’s watching him with confusion and impatience, and when his eyes meet hers, it’s like everything is crisper, more colorful, more real, just... more.  She looks wholly unaffected, and he has to blink a few times to clear his head, remind himself of why he came here in the first place.  

She doesn’t believe his lies, which is his fault for not coming up with anything better than a coffee spill. To be fair, he's pretty distracted. But it’s more than that.  She looks at him and he feels like she can see everything.  She knows who he is, what he’s doing, what he’s done and what he has planned.  She cuts through the Oliver Queen mask, and the Hood mask and sees inside, sees the person inside that Oliver doesn’t even fully know or understand.  With a single look, she’s found her way to the center of his soul and she raises an eyebrow that says, “You can do better.” 

And in an instant, he knows why Laurel wasn’t his angel.  Because he wanted to be better for Laurel, but he never could.  He’s known Felicity Smoak for a few minutes, and he feels that if she doesn’t admire or approve of what he’s doing, he’ll have to change everything.

~

He tells her, but not right away. Unlike when he was a kid, he doesn’t tell anyone about Felicity and her brightly colored wings and her soul piercing, life altering looks. He says it once to himself, just to feel the words, “She’s my angel.” And then doesn't even think the words. 

But he brings her closer, tells her some of his deepest secrets without hesitation, trust her to be such a large part of his life so soon after meeting her without qualms. He feels vulnerable around her, soul stripped bare and on display for her to judge, and he's so goddamn afraid of screwing up. Hell, he's even cried in front of her, because after Tommy, that was his first instinct, to head back to the Foundry and make sure she was alright and safe. 

He’s terrified most of the time that he's either going to lose her or scare her off because there are days where he feels like there isn't a redeemable bone in his body. 

This is one of those days. 

He’s not doing so well.  He got in a little over his head. Well, a lot over his head.  On a good day, he probably could have taken on a warehouse of highly armed criminals, but he'd been having a pretty bad day and had fought with Felicity earlier at the office, and she went straight home afterwards (upon his shouted insistence).  Without her soft voice in his ears he felt lost, disconnected, and unprepared.  He missed the sound of her breathing, her concerned gasps, her rambling, her joking, her instructions, her scolding.  But he ignored the empty hole in his chest and took the anger out in a productive way.  Only to get drugged  shot in the back a few times by a gang member he didn’t see but she certainly would have.

He refused to go to the hospital, had Digg give him heavy painkillers (more for the older man’s comfort than his own) and patch him up.  

Felicity showed up while Digg was stitching up the last hole, hair in a loose ponytail, clothes rumbled, wings spread wide like she was about to fly away.

“Why aren’t you at a hospital?” she demanded, hands in fists at her side.  

“He demanded to be treated here,” Digg announced.  “I had to force him to take some anesthetics.”

“Of course,” she sighs. “Because he's a broody vigilante who's too good for centralized health care .”

If his head were on straight, he wouldn't have taken offense, would have snapped something back. But his head was swimming and his chest was hurting, and his brain could only focus on one thing at a time.

She was still mad at him, and it made him want to cry. Well, he's pretty sure she's not making him want to cry. He's pretty sure it's the drugs mixing with the painkillers. But the tight frown on her face makes his chest hurt and his eyes burn and he hates feeling this weak and guilty. 

He's reaching out for her before he realizes he's even doing anything. There's a little bit of right mind left in him that's banging into a wall repeatedly, but he still reaches out, making grabbing motions with his hands like a toddler, and mumbling her name petulantly. 

He's can already start to imagine the embarrassed hangover that awaits.

“Felicity,” he whines, and she tilts her head at him, looking unimpressed. He tries sliding off the med table, but Digg pushes him back and continues working on the last of the stitches. 

Felicity stalks over with a sigh, places her hand in his when he reaches out. 

“What happened?” She asks, rubbing her thumb against the back of her hand. 

“You weren't there,” he mutters. She glares. 

“Yeah, because someone told me to not bother showing up,” she huffs out. His heart feels heavier than before, and the urge to cry returns. 

Felicity was his angel. His angel and he was screwing it up. He was fighting with her and pushing her away and making her upset and mad. It was like Laurel but worse. Because Felicity was his, actually his, and what if he screwed up really bad and she decided he couldn't be helped. What if she found out a fraction of the things he had done and decided that there was no saving him, no making him better? What if Felicity left him? Could angels leave their person? Because if anyone could, Felicity should. 

He didn't even realize he was sniffling until his team was staring in disbelief. 

“Oliver?” Felicity breathed, and he felt a strange dampness on his cheeks. 

“I'm out,” Diggle decided, placing the medical equipment aside. “Look, I patched him up after five bullets to the torso; you get to deal with drugged Oliver. I'm going home.”

“Digg,” she protests, but he's already out the door. She sighs, and he wants to say something. He has words on the tip of his tongue that need to get out, but he's not sure what they are and it hurts his chest. 

Felicity just looks at him for a few minutes, blue eyes fill with concern, exasperation and a hint of leftover anger. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, but it comes out slurred. “You were right.” 

“Of course I was,” she agrees, grinning weakly. Her hand sweeps a few stray tears off his cheek, and she drags him forward into a loose hug that he needs more than anything. He buries his face in her shoulder, breathing in as she runs her hand along his back. 

Her wings stretch out before folding over them, and he watches entranced as always. They look different, more solid than they usually do. They range all the time, from so faint he barely sees them to as real as the rest of her. Right now they look real, they cast shadows, they give of warmth and comfort. He wants to see if they feel as soft as they look. 

“You're an angel,” he confesses, and he feels the hitch in her breath that she tries to pass off as a laugh. 

“Alright, you are super high,” she decides, running a hand through his hair. 

He whines, and accepts the loss of the last of his dignity in this situation. 

“No,” he protests, leaning into her hand. 

“Oh, you’re not high on painkillers now?” she teases. 

“You are an angel,” he insists, sounding more like a petulant child than he'd like. “Felicity, you're my angel.”

“Okay, Oliver,” she mutters. “Why don't we get you home?”

He doesn't want to go home though. Not when he feels so much more comfortable right here, surrounded by her, cocooned in warmth. He feels safe for the first time since before he left on the Gambit, wrapped up in her arms. It's an amazing feeling, and he never wants it to end. 

“Like the stories you know,” he's still rambling. “My angel. You make me better.”

He reaches out slowly, scared that they might disappear if he moves too fast. He holds his breath and feels Felicity holding hers until the tips of his fingers are brushing over the top feathers of her left wing. They don't disappear. She shudders, but her eyes are focused on his hand. 

“See,” he breaths. “Angel.”

He brushes his hand down, sweeping over the span of her wing as carefully as he can. There was a time in the fifth grade when his class went to the Starling City Zoo and he was selected to hold a newborn rabbit. The instructor kept repeating how he had to be gentle and careful and not squeeze or press too hard. He remembers feeling the ball of fuzz squirm in his hand, and how it only lasted about five seconds because he didn't have the patience or care to do it properly. 

Felicity’s wings were ever softer. They felt solid and strong, but he took great care to be gentle and careful like he didn't with the rabbit. He held his breath, hand shaking, terrified of hurting her, of doing something wrong, of ruining the safety and warmth of this moment. 

“Felicity,” he whispers, stilling his hand and dragging his eyes away and up to meet her own. 

“Yeah, Oliver,” she whispers back, eyes half lidded. 

“You won't leave me, right?” he asks, hating the way his voice shook. “Even if I screw up really bad, or do something really unforgivable. You'll let me try and fix things, right? Be better?”

“Of course, Oliver,” she answers without hesitation, quelling the sinking feeling in his stomach before it gets overwhelming. “Someone’s going to have to scold you for being a self sacrificing idiot.”

He sighs, relieved, and sinks into her embrace further, reveling in the feeling of her hands on his back and in his hair. 

“You've had a long night,” she murmurs, shifting back. “How ‘bout I take you home? By which I mean drive you to your house, not anything else that that sentence might have suggested.”

“Can I stay with you tonight?” He asks, because even if the painkillers are wearing off, he can't seem to filter his thoughts from what he's saying. 

“Alright, as long as you promise to make me breakfast.” And if that's all it takes to spend the night in her apartment, in a place that's so truly hers, he will cook breakfast, lunch and dinner for her everyday, whatever she wants, whenever she wants. 

He manages not to say that part out loud and chalks the whole night up as a success. 

~

She doesn't believe him. He's not sure why she doesn't, especially after that night, when he touched her wings, felt the soft warmth of her feathers beneath his shaking fingers. He knows that even though she shivered and melted under his touch, she didn't know the wings were there. He also notices that he's the only thing that can touch her wings. If she sits in her chair, sliding from monitor to monitor, lays on her back, turns in front of a cluttered countertop, they act transparent, moving right through whatever's in their way. If someone accidentally stands to close to her, right in the path of her wings, or places a hand on her shoulder blade, his breath catches in his throat and he sees red for a second, but nothing happens. 

Sometimes even when he tries to run a hand along the very ends of her wingspan, they fade out of his grasp. But there are many other times, when he reaches out discreetly and runs a single finger along a certain purple feather or a blue one, that they're there, solid, warm, soft, assuring. Something happens every time the wings don't disappear beneath his touch, a feeling like home and happiness spreads its way through his chest. She may not realize that they’re there, but she always reacts when he places his hand on the curve of one, or stands near enough that his side brushes against the crest of the other.  She’ll smile or sigh, always contented, relaxed, comforted, and it lights him up inside to know that he’s not the only one benefitting from this relationship; he can make her feel better too.

He’s wondered just how far it goes.  How much pressure can he put on before something happens? Would she feel it if he grabbed too tight or pushed too hard?  Of course he never tries anything, even scolds himself for the mere thought of something awful like that, abusing the trust, pressing to limits that don’t matter because she’s his and that’s the end.  He’s always gentle, always hesitant and soft and so scared of tainting them with his own darkness.  He knows he couldn’t test anything, even if he truly wanted to, because the fear of losing her, hurting her, ruining their relationship, was a fire that didn’t need any fuel.  Hell, he felt guilty just touching her wings without permission, despite knowing that she doesn’t even know they exist.  So he’s curious sometimes, and even if it becomes harder and harder to ignore and stay away from her bright warm wings, he focuses every ounce of self control into keeping their light and warmth and comfort away from his pain and dark and cold.  

But while he’s gotten better at controlling himself, he still can’t control the world around them.  

When he was on the island, with a picture of Laurel in his pocket and frequent homesick longings to be better for her, he thought and talked about angels a lot.  Shado told him all sorts of stories that she’s heard about angels and their powers, legends that depicted powerful kind giants.  Slade didn’t have any stories, but looking back on that time, Oliver noticed he would always glance carefully in Shado’s direction when the topic came up.  Things like that made more sense now that Oliver knew what it was like to have an angel.  The way Slade would stare at Shado’s back occasionally, unseeing, or maybe seeing something that no one else could.  The well concealed jealousy, because God, if Felicity was with someone else so intimately, he wasn’t sure how he’d keep his heart from breaking.  The utter despair when Shado was killed, knowing that the one person who was supposedly there for you unconditionally, to love and comfort you, to make you be your best self even if you didn’t want to, was gone.  

It made sense that in Slade’s madness, Shado was there, telling him what he was doing was the right thing like a fallen angel.  

As far as Slade knew, Laurel was his angel.  So Oliver wasn’t exactly surprised when he learned that Laurel had been taken. 

A part of him had expected if, and that same part was already marching Felicity towards the second Foundry by a hand in between her shoulder blades. She protested, because of course she would hate feeling useless or weak (even though it was the opposite, he was the weak one. He needed her safe for him to even consider a course of action). 

“What if I pretend?” She suggested. “Well, we would both have to pretend but you're pretty good at lying so acting shouldn't be that hard. Anyway, we pretend that taking Laurel was a mistake, just pretend that I'm the one he should come after and then I can get close enough and stick him with the cure.”

“I don't like that plan,” he announced, amazed when he wasn't growling at the simple thought of Slade getting anywhere near her. 

“We’d just be pretending,” she insisted. “He'll underestimate me, and it'll work.”

“That's not the- Felicity, he took Laurel because he thinks she's my angel.”

She nods. “I know, that's why we need to move fast. I can find him faster this way than any other way, and we can save Laurel and-”

“Felicity, Laurel’s not my angel,” he announced. She glanced up into his eyes, questioning, almost daring him to say it. “You are.” It comes out a whisper, a broken thing that rips its way out. “I can't let him near you.”

For once, Felicity Smoak seems completely speechless. “H-how… Oliver, are you… How can you be sure? There no science to these things, there's no way of knowing…”

He reaches out and runs a hand from her shoulder to the top curve of her wing. She's not breathing, just staring wide eyed, from his hand to his face and back again. Just as the simple touch brought him a sense of calm despite the chaos raging around them, he can see the shiver that passes through her, see the tension seep out of her posture. 

“How long?” She asks.

“Since I first met you,” he admits, hanging his head because he knows that she's not going to be happy. He wonders if this is it, if this is what pushes over the line, if this is why she leaves him. 

“And you didn't think to tell me before now?” She continues, and he can feel her shaking with anger and it terrifies him. He withdraws his hand. 

“It never came up,” he offers. 

“Oh so I was supposed to just come up to you one day and say what, ‘Hey Oliver, you know those legends about people having guardian angels that we heard as kids, am I by any chance yours? You know just in case we have to deal an ex friend of yours that wants to kill everyone important to you especially your-’”

“Felicity,” he protests. “Look, we don't have time. Just please stay here. I'll come back as soon as it's over. I promise.”

He's turning, ready to head out and face whatever Slade wants to throw at him knowing that she's safe. But she's not done. 

“What happens if Laurel dies?” She asks, sounding scared and angry and he just wants to comfort her, but  a part of him knows that the past few months of silently helping her relax are over now that she knows.  

“Felicity.”

“How do you expect me to live with that?” she presses, marching towards him.  “Or if it’s not Laurel, if it’s someone else?  If it’s Digg, or Sara, or Roy, or y… Or you?  How do you expect me to move on knowing that I did absolutely nothing to help?”

“I need you safe.”

“How do you expect me to not do anything and have to live with the knowledge that Laurel died in my place?”

“I do, not you.”

“That’s bullshit, Oliver.  If I stay here and Laurel dies, how am I supposed to look at Sara?  To talk to her knowing that when her sister was in danger, danger that I was supposed to be in, I was away from everything, twiddling my thumbs instead of being useful, instead of doing everything I can to save a friend?”

“Nobody is dying, okay?”

“You can’t guarantee that.  And I’m not going to wait around here for bad news.”   
“Felicity, Slade wants to kill my angel, take away the light and the good in my life because that’s what I did to him.  I need you here, safe, so he can’t do that, so he can’t win.  Do you understand?”

“Oliver, I may be your angel, but I am my own goddamn person.  You don’t get to make choices for me.”   
“What if I’m asking you?  What if I’m begging you, Felicity, to please stay here, where you’re safe, where he can’t get you? Please.”

“I just want to help,” she whispers brokenly.  

“Then, please stay here.  It will help me make it through this,” he replies, reaching for her hand.  Her fingers are cold and shaking slightly, and he brings her knuckles up to his mouth even though now is not the time for a completely different confession.

“Promise no one will get hurt?” she asks.  He nods, stepping towards her.

“Promise,” he assures her, brushing a kiss across her forehead before releasing her hand and stepping back.

“I’ll stay here then,” she decides, albeit begrudgingly.  He offers her a smile, weak but enough to get one in return.

“I’ll come get you when it’s over,” he promises, and watches her settle in, sitting down on the floor, wings curling around her shoulders, before he turns away and walks out the door.

~

He’s not sure why he underestimates Slade.  He’s also not sure why he’s shocked that the worst thing that could possibly happen did.

“You know after all that hype about Laurel, it’s almost disappointing meeting your actual angel.  She’s not very strong, your Felicity. I doubt she’ll be able to hold up under the weight of your darkness.”

Oliver's been afraid before but nothing this extreme, nothing that takes over his every thought and heartbeat like this does. He tries to come up with a plan but he can't form thoughts beyond  _ Felicity _ and  _ danger _ . By the time he gets there it's too late to turn back, too late to come up with anything substantial to go on besides save her, protect her at all costs, do anything. 

He thought he'd be prepared for whatever waited inside after nearly two years of worrying endlessly about her, but he's not.  Nothing could have prepared him for seeing her like that, kneeling on the ground, sword at her throat. Sure she'd been in danger before but it never felt so real, losing her has never felt so possible. 

“Felicity,” he breathes, twitching to grab her and run. 

“Oliver, I'm sorry,” she gasps, eyes wide and scared and wet. She looks guilty and apologetic, and he knows she did something, but they're going to have a conversation about that later, but later, when she's safe and wrapped up in a few blankets or his arms, but safe and warm and happy.  Slade presses the sword at her throat and she whimpers. Oliver sees red.  “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” he says immediately, because it really doesn’t matter what she did, he forgive her, he just wants her safe.

“Shut up,” Slade orders, jerking her by the collar of her shirt. Oliver growls, doesn’t even try to hide it.

“What do you want, Slade?” he spits.  Despite his hostile front, his knees are shaking. He knows what’s coming and can’t think of a way out, can't think of anything beyond,  _ Felicity, Felicity, Felicity _ .  

“I want you to know what it’s like,” Slade says slowly, like it’s new information, like Oliver doesn't know what he plans to do. 

“She didn’t do anything to you,” he blurts, even though he knows it’s futile. “Shado’s death was my fault; she had nothing to do with it, so why don’t you-”

Slade moves the sword and the rest of his words get strangled in a breathless whimper.  He can’t breathe, feels his heart stop. Slade draws the tip of the sword along the top of Felicity’s left wing, like he can see it.  And the sword drags along the top curve like it’s actually touching her. And Felicity gasps like she can actually feel it.  And Oliver can’t breathe.

“She’s as much a part of this as you are,” Slade announces, grinning.  “You made her a part of this.  And her death will be your fault just like Shado’s was.”

“You- don’t do this,” Oliver breathes, eyes stuck on Felicity’s, trying to tell her everything he needs to, just in case.

“You did this,” Slade barks out.  

“Felicity,” he whispers, because he can’t.  He needs her to tell him what to do, how to make it stop, how to do the right thing.  He said he wasn’t going to kill Slade but what choice does he have.  What else can he do?

She smiles weakly at him, fear like he’s never seen before in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says.  And Oliver doesn’t have time to process anything, when suddenly her arm is swinging down and slamming into his thigh and his heart stops.  Slade staggers back swearing, sword dipping precariously close to her wing.  Oliver unfreezes shooting at him once, twice, and darting forward to grab Felicity out of harm’s way. 

He lifts her from the ground, half carrying, half dragging her away from Slade.  She’s breathing heavy and shallow, but breathing, and he runs his hands along her arms and wings briefly, making sure she’s not hurt.

Later he’ll blame it on adrenaline and fear, but he kisses her, quick but deep, holding her face gently, squeezing his eyes shut.  She gasps, arms flailing, but it only lasts a second before he’s pulling away, shoving her behind him and facing Slade.

“Run,” he tells her, cocking an arrow.  

“You bitch!” Slade roars.

“Oliver,” she mutters, sounding as dazed as he feels.

“Get Laurel and get to safety,” he orders, letting an arrow fly.  “Felicity… You’re-you’re amazing, Felicity.”

He keeps his eyes on Slade as he hears her dashing away, heels clicking against the pavement.  He shoots when Slade even moves.

“Seems I was wrong about that one,” Slade chuckles.  And Oliver understands everything, knows what must have gone through Slade’s mind.  Because Felicity was fine, but he still felt ready to kill.  

He wouldn’t kill, because Felicity wouldn’t want him to regress like that.  But he was going to enjoy this.

~

“What did you do?” he asks.  And he tries to sound firm, but he’s just so grateful she’s okay.  She’s safe and whole and wrapped in a shock blanket, and he just wants to pull her close and never let go.

She looks guilty, smiles sheepishly.

“I, uh, did exactly what you told me not to,” she offered, looking over his shoulders instead of meeting his eyes.  

“Felicity,” he sighs, exasperated, but fond, and so grateful.

“I was alright for a few minutes and then I just got really angry, because you were treating me like some damsel and I wanted to help, so I may have notified Slade that he might have the wrong person and where I was and I planned to knock him out and stick him with the cure when he got there, I had a whole plan, except he never showed and there were an alarming number of Mirakuru men, a bit overkill if you ask me, and well, you know the rest.”

“God, Felicity,” he breathes.

“In retrospect, I realize that I may have made the wrong call and that it could have gone much worse,” she added.

“I-” He doesn’t even have words so he doesn’t bother, just steps forward and wraps his arms around her, hugging tight.  Her hands fist in his vest, face hidden in his shoulder.  She’s shaking, but he doesn’t say anything, just holds onto her, mouth pressed to the top of her head.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice quivering.  

“Don’t be,” he assures her, just as shaky.  

“We’re going to talk about this angel business,” she announces.  “It’s coming, a long talk about trust and keeping things from me, especially things about me, just not right now, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees, peppering her forehead with kisses.  “Anything you want.  Absolutely anything you want.”

~

It's like John can tell something's different from the moment he sees them. Maybe it's because something is different. They're standing closer together, they sit next to each other in the plane. He keeps reaching out to touch her shoulder or her wing, to guarantee that she's okay, and she keeps leaning into it, relaxing. John doesn't say anything, but he keeps looking from Felicity to him and back like he knows. 

Felicity falls asleep, shock blanket still draped over her shoulders. She looks calm and she's safe and Oliver's just so grateful. 

“So,” John says slowly, leaning back in his seat. “What happened?”

“She's my angel,” Oliver sighs, and that phrase is coming out easier and easier. The more he says it, the more true it all feels. 

“What do you mean?” Digg asks. 

“Like the stories. When we were kids. She's mine and Shado was Slade’s and he was going to… But he didn't.”

“How do you even know?”

He runs his fingertips along her feathers, watching them twitch and then settle again, curled around her shoulders gently. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” John asks. 

“I don't know,” he breathes. “I think that's up to her.”

“Look, don't hurt her,” John says. 

“I would never-”

“I know, Oliver. But let's be honest, you can be dense, man. You don't deal with emotions well. And Felicity, she's one of the strongest people I know, but she feels a lot. She’s good at hiding it, like you, but just… Don't hurt her.”

“Digg, I'm… Not sure I know how,” he offers, starting at his lap. 

“You two'll figure out,” Digg says with a sigh. “Here's to hoping you'll figure it out before someone gets hurt.”

~

“What do they look like?” Felicity asks. They're on her couch, and they haven't talked in hours. They last time they spoke was on the beach. He apologized for putting her in danger and she’d brushed him off, looking like she wanted to say something more. But then they were on the plane again and this time he'd gotten some sleep, the first good sleep in months with Felicity’s shoulder pressed against his. They didn't have to talk after landing to agree to head back to her place. It was something understood by now, since he would stay with her any night he was too upset to go home. Then they ended up on the couch, and he was kissing her again, everywhere except her mouth: along her cheeks, nose, forehead, then across her jaw and down her neck and her shirt was on the floor next to the coffee table and he was kissing her bare shoulder, calloused hands brushing along her waist. He was soft and chaste, methodically making his way across her body, reassuring himself that she was unharmed, cataloging every freckle, every mark on her skin, every sensitive place that would make her gasp or sigh, and her hands were in his hair, petting over the back of his neck. 

They hadn't spoken since the beach, and he’s lavishing the bullet wound on her shoulder with his mouth, when she turns into him with a moan, nuzzles against the side of his head, and asks, “What do they look like?”, voice soft and full of wonder. 

He pauses, and she lets out a little whine, but he's not sure what she expected after asking him a question. He lifts a hand from her waist to place against the crest of one, it's solid under his hands like it has been since he left her at the Foundary. 

“They're yellow,” he tells her, voice raw and hoarse from not being used. “Bright yellow, brighter than your hair. And there's little spots of color.” He brushes a finger along one of the spots, his favorite. “This is blue. Really bold. But the one over here's a pale blue. And there's purple on the ends over here, and a few dots of red on the back. I don't know what it means, but it uh, it looks beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she mutters. “How are they solid? Do they knock things over? If they can touch things how come I don't ever feel anything on them?”

“I don't know,” he replies, smiling because it's so her. 

“But I'm laying on my back right?” She continues. “I can feel the couch on my back. Where are they? How come I don't feel them? What does it look like?”

“It looks like you're lying on your back, and they come up here and here,” he explains, tracing the edges of them where they rise up and fold over their heads like a cocoon. “Do you really not feel anything when I touch them?”

“I feel something. But not there. Not like there's something there, just a tingly feeling in my brain and on my back, and a warm feeling in my stomach- do you mean to tell me everything I've felt these weird tingles in the past year has been because-”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his hand away. He dreaded this talk, knew it would end like this, losing her because he abused her trust, because he did things without her permission and he knows he shouldn't have but he did anyway, couldn't help himself. 

“It always made me feel relaxed,” she confesses, raising her hand up to his, placing her fingers where his were touching her wing. Her fingers pass through like there's nothing there. “Like a massage. What's it feel like for you?”

“I dunno. Just… Nice. Comforting,” he explains, not meeting her eyes. He's not sure what's happening between them but he doesn't want to screw up. “I, uh… It feels like home and safety. I don't know how it works.”

“It feels like that for me, too,” she confesses, moving her hand down to his cheek. “Really good.”

“I'm glad,” he mutters, nuzzling into her palm. “Like making you feel good.”

She lets out a breathy sigh, fingers curling. He turns into her palm, kissing the lines of her hands and the tips of her fingers. He's still grateful, still on a rush of adrenaline, so happy she's okay, so unbelievably relieved. He kisses the inside of her wrist, wrapping her hand in his. 

“This feels pretty good, too,” she sighs. And they don't talk about it, but everything is fine. 

~

It's been weeks. And they never talk about it. They don't talk about the angel thing. And they don't talk about the “he basically lives with her now and kisses her forehead after every mission and some nights they have a repeat of that first night after Slade” thing. 

Felicity doesn't mention the wings at all after that night, but sometimes on days when they’re stressed or arguing, she takes his hand and guides it to behind her shoulder. She's usually way off from where they are, but he just moves his hand over, let's it calm them both down. 

It's weeks and he thinks they're never going to talk about it again, when at almost one in the morning she whispers, “Oliver?”, lips pressed against the back of his neck, “What do they feel like?”

He doesn't have to ask what she's talking about, he knows. He wonders what she was thinking about that lead to the question, if this is something she frequently ponders in bed at night. (And that's another thing they do now: sleep in her bed, with her wrapped around him from behind, because he likes the feeling of her wings curled over them.)

“They're soft,” he explains, keeping his voice quiet to maintain the calm serenity of the moment. “They move very gracefully. And they feel very… light.”

Felicity sighs, a gust of warm breath on the back of his neck. Her lips still brush the back of his neck, moving as they shape her next question. 

“Can they break? Have you ever tried to see how far it goes? Do you think it would hurt if-?”

“No,” he replies, maybe a little too harshly. “I would never-”

“No, not like that,” she protests, running a hand soothingly along his side. “I know you wouldn't.  I'm just… curious you know. It's weird, knowing there's something there when there nothing there.”

“But what if it did hurt you?” Oliver mutters. “I couldn't- can't risk that.”

“I get it,” she agrees. “I just wish it made sense, you know?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I wish a lot of things made sense.”

She kisses his neck for real this time, slow and open-mouthed. 

They probably should talk about this but they don't.  And well, he’s not complaining.  She rolls up, so he’s flat on the bed and she’s leaning over him.  Her mouth is still on his neck, nose nuzzling along his jaw.  

“My turn,” she announces, kissing up the curve of his ear.  She smooths her hands along the hem of his shirt, asking for permission.  Hell, like she ever has to.  He pulls his shirt off and tosses somewhere across the room.  She leans back a little, glancing up and down his chest, searching for a place  to start.

“More scars than you,” he notes.  That doesn’t stop her from settling back down and tracing every old scar and tattoo with gentle kisses.  Though it’s the same thing he’s done to her a million times, it feels different.  Where he’s holding her close, assuring himself that she’s alright, safe and unharmed under him, she’s curious and analytical.  He’s not sure what else he expected from her.  She explores with her mouth and her hands, paying equal attention to every blemish on his skin, every jagged red line, like she’s reliving the moment with him, just through that contact.

He closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the pillows.  If this is what it feels like for her, he makes a mental note to do this more often.  But for the time being he just tries not to make too much noise.  

He knows they have to talk about this eventually.  He really wants to talk about whatever this is or can be, eventually.  But all that isn’t a priority right now.  Talking can wait.

~

They still haven’t talked and he’s thinking that maybe they don’t ever have to.  He asks Felicity on a date.  She says yes, eyes surprised but excited, wings fluttering behind her.  And they haven’t talked about the kissing thing, or the sharing a bed thing, or the wing thing for that matter, but maybe they don’t have to, maybe they can just accept that new things are happening between them and let whatever happens, happens. As long as she’s okay with it, he’s okay with it.

But then everything goes up in flames.  Literally.

In the chaos of it all, his mind goes blank.  He stops thinking, just starts acting.  She’s covered in blood, but she’s not bleeding and she’s still breathing.  He doesn’t let his thought process go beyond that.  He’s not sure if his brain even can go beyond a mantra of  _ she’s still breathing, she’s still breathing _ ,  _ still breathing.  _  That's where his world begins and ends at this point.  She is breathing so he can breathe.  If she is not breathing… he’s not sure what he’ll do.  

He’s carried her back to the Foundry, even though he doesn’t remember walking out of the smoking remains of the restaurant or anything else after seeing her face smeared red, but still breathing, wings pristine as ever.

John and Roy are in the Foundry, a part of him processes them sounding shocked and concerned.  He sets her down on the med table, as gently as he can, and the quiet in his head ends.  She’s safe, she’s going to be okay. 

The silence, the single minded focus to protect, is quickly replaced by anger.  Anger, mostly at himself for not paying attention, for putting her in a situation like that, for letting her get hurt.  Anger and fear, because that could have ended much worse.  So he stays long enough to be there when she wakes, rest a palm on her wing to help them both breathe, recover, relax.  

And then he leaves, a man on a mission, trying not to think about the heartbroken look in her eyes when he suited up and dashed out.

~

They haven’t talked about it.  But now  _ it _ is something different.   _ It _ being what happens next.  

He’s terrified.  The thought of what could have happened, what might have been, if they were at a different table, or the bomb came from a different angle, haunts him.  He could have lost her.  He could have lost Felicity, because he wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t making sure everything was safe. He feels the need to do something to make sure that never happens again, and he can’t come up with anything besides stay away.  Keep the danger as far away from possible even if that means staying as far away from her as he can.

He needs to tell her.  

She doesn’t want to talk.  She’s adamant about it.  If they’re alone, she will do anything to avoid talking about what happened.  

But they have to.  They’ve spent way too long avoiding too many things that they have to do something about it before something else explodes.  They can’t sweep this under the rug with all the other things they don’t talk about.

He gets a chance to confront her in the hospital so he does, gently tugging her away from their friends.  She’s a little distracted, so she doesn’t seem to notice, follows along beside him, babbling excitedly about the baby.  He stops in a deserted part of the hall, and she trails off, seeming to realize where this is about to go.

“Can we not?” she asks, crossing her arms sternly.  He would do anything for her, and although he doesn’t want to have to do this, he needs to make sure she’s safe before anything else.

“Felicity, we need to talk about this,” he announces, resisting the urge to rest his hand on her wing for comfort.  

“What’s there to talk about? We had a nice date.  I had a great time.  We should do it again sometime,” she snaps.

“We can’t,” he protests. 

“If this actually was about us, I wouldn’t have a problem, Oliver, but if this is about the explosion-”

“You could’ve gotten hurt! Or worse. And it was my fault.”

“Wow, Oliver, I hadn’t realized that you bombed the restaurant we were in.”

“Felicity, please.”

“I know you think that everything is your responsibility-”

“I can’t, Felicity.  It was my fault. I should have-”

“How is something that was out of your control-?”

“My life is dangerous.”

“So is mine.”

“I can’t do this.  I can’t put you in danger like that. So we can’t do this.”

“No,” she says, eyes blazing.  

“Felicity,” he groans, looking up at the ceiling. This is hard enough to do without having to argue.

“Am I your angel?” she demands. It's the first time she's said the word. 

“Yes, of course,” he replies without hesitation.

“Okay, then- then you should listen to what I say and I say… stop being dumb,” she stammers. 

“Felicity.”

“I know this is dangerous, I chose this,” she continues. “I know the risks, Oliver, and they’ve been there for the past two years, it doesn’t matter what we are.  You’re scared.  That’s alright, but you don’t have to be dumb and self-sacrificing all the time.”

“I can’t lose you, too,” he breathes.  “I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” she says.  

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be… if you stop being dumb.  It's all or nothing, Oliver,” she states, dropping her arms to her sides. “Take me or l-leave me. But don't make it about everything else. It's one thing if you don't love me-”

He surges forward, cupping her face in his hands, and kisses her. Last time it had been rushed, fueled by adrenaline and fear, so this time he takes his time, closes his eyes. He memorizes the feeling of her mouth, the sharp intake of breath, the gentle way she moves her lips in time with his when she starts to kiss back. He doesn't want to leave this moment. Just stay here forever and not have to worry about anything else in the world. 

But he has to clear something up.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against hers. “Of course, I love you.” And she's right; he is scared. He's terrified of what that means for them, worries that she might get hurt. But it's worth it when her eyes light up, happy and hopeful, and smiling, she leans in and kisses him again. 

“I love you, too,” she replies, encouragingly, like she's coaxing him out of a corner.  

This wasn't how he wanted this to go, and he's scared and a part of him still screams that he needs to protect her, keep her safe. 

But maybe she is right. Maybe he is being dumb. So he ignores that one part of his brain in favor of listening to Felicity. She's his angel for a reason. 

~

They're back at the apartment, and it's slowly become their apartment instead of hers. They're in bed, which is now theirs as well, and they're fucking. 

When they'd gotten back from the hospital, Felicity immediately dragged him to the bedroom, lacing their fingers together.  Then her shirt was coming off, and his quickly followed, and he carried her to the bed, laying them down gently. For a while they just kissed, slowly learning each other. But then the rest of their clothes were coming off and then they were fucking. 

Like with the kiss before, Oliver goes slow, gentle, takes his time. Felicity seems slightly frantic and desperate in her kisses and the movement of her hands, so Oliver takes the time to calm her down, reassure her that they have time. He kisses along her collarbone, gently biting small hickies into her skin, as he fucks into her slowly. She fists the bedsheets in one hand, runs the other through his short hair, and she sighs and gasps and groans, eyes closed, head thrown back. 

And it’s then that he gets an idea. He nuzzles against her neck for a second, admiring the marks he's left there before raising his head up slightly and turning. Her wings are fluttering every now and then, hovering around then like a little cave. 

Oliver leans out and presses his mouth to the little patch of blue feathers he loves so much. She lets out a loud gasp, arching her back for a moment. 

“Oliver,” she whines, hands scrambling against his shoulders. “Mmmm.”

“You feel that?” He asks, dragging his mouth over the patch again. She moans obscenely, and grabs him by the back of the neck to pull him in for a proper kiss. 

“Love you,” he huffs against her as they kiss sloppily and uncoordinated. 

“Yeah, yes,” she agrees, running her hand along his back, fingernails scraping gently along his skin. 

He takes her apart, driving into her at just the right angle, kissing her tenderly and holding her close while he does. And when they're both done, he tightens his arms around her, and makes a promise to himself to never let go. 

~

“I don't know what I'm doing,” Felicity mutters, frowning. She's sitting on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, watching him as he exits the bathroom. Her hair is wet, hanging limp around her face and dripping onto the bedspread.  

It had been a nice shower. He's not sure what she's talking about. 

“I don't know how to be someone's angel,” she continues, scraping her teeth along her lower lip. “I feel like I’m gonna let you down.  I have no idea what to do.  I’m not sure if I’m not doing enough or doing too much.  Everything I said before about listening to me and it not being dangerous: I don’t know if I’m right, I was just being selfish.  You really shouldn’t listen to me; I have no idea what the right thing to do is.  I’m a pretty shit angel when you think about it, if I can’t even figure out what you should do from what I want you to do, because I want this to work and I don’t want to lose you, but I-”

“Felicity,” he interrupts gently, and she stops talking, eyes wide and frantic.  He walks over to her, sits down on the bed next to her, and wraps his arms around her waist. “I love you,” he begins, because he can say that now and he doesn’t ever want to stop saying it.  “Don't worry.  I don't know how this is supposed to work either, or why, but there’s no letting me down or not doing the right thing; you  _ are _ my angel.  You don’t have to do anything at all to already be the perfect angel.  It doesn’t matter if you know what I should do, or if you’re being selfish, you make me better just being you.  You make me good, or well, make me want to be good.  You’re an angel just by being you.”

“I don’t want to screw up,” she whispers. “I want to be able to help you.”

“You do,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ear and kissing her forehead.  “You already do, Felicity.”

“I love you,” she breathes, leaning into his hand.

“I love you, too,” he replies without hesitation.  He kisses her chastely because he can.  “We’ll figure it out.  Whatever happens.”

“Together,” she says, somehow a question and a demand at the same time.

He nods, grinning fondly at her.

“Yeah, together,” he agrees, kissing her shoulder.  “Anything you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea where this came from, but here it is! I'd really appreciate any constructive criticism. Anyway I hope you liked it!  
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](applejuiz.tumblr.com)


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